


I'm Your Man

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Gay Character, M/M, Pre-Series, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, canon character death(s), major spoilers for A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> It took a lot to come to terms with it, but the facts aren’t going to change. Jon only loves Rhaegar, and won’t ever love a woman.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Your Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [assassin_nariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/assassin_nariel/gifts).



> Written for the first round at [got_exchange](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com); title from Leonard Cohen. The timeline is probably not correct but I did my best to double-check.

He thought he had been prepared.

He isn’t.

Jon Connington has just turned twelve when he’s formerly introduced to the Prince of Dragonstone, or that’s how he had been instructed to address him. (They might be the same age, but Jon is no crown prince.)

As soon as he does, the prince’s eyes light up in amusement, his lips curl upward and he shakes his head. “If we are to serve together, don’t mind the formalities. It’s Rhaegar.”

Jon nods, momentarily dumbfounded. He thinks that they have seen each other in a number of other occasions, but they were children then, and in all his memories of Rhaegar Targaryen, they’re always far from each other.

Now, though, they aren’t anymore, and Jon’s heart is beating twice as quickly as usual as he thinks about serving with _this_ particular crown prince; for some reason he can’t quite name he’s fascinated by that small smile. He feels somehow ordinary, too ordinary; his features look merely common in comparison to the shoulder-length silver hair and that unique shade of violet of Rhaegar’s eyes.

“I hope that we can be friends,” Rhaegar says, and for a second Jon thinks that his heart is going to burst.

Nothing in the world, right now, sounds better than being friends with Rhaegar Targaryen.

\--

He’s fourteen when things change.

It’s gradual, and he doesn’t realize at first that whenever he and Rhaegar are training or sparring, he always lingers a second more than he should when they touch, or when they fall upon each other. At times he loses bouts on purpose only because it means that Rhaegar will fall on top of him and he’ll have the chance to look him in the eyes from a closer point of view. He doesn’t even know _why_ he does it, and he’s careful not to let it happen too often. By now they know each other too well, and he doesn’t want to give himself away when he doesn’t even know the reasons behind his actions.

It’s not just that; he finds himself stealing glances at Rhaegar when he knows he won’t be caught. He can’t help himself from staring at Rhaegar’s now longer hair, at the sharper lines of his face, at his frame (more muscular now than it was before); when Rhaegar’s voice changes and becomes slightly deeper, Jon finds himself shivering whenever he’s addressed by name.

He doesn’t realize what it is exactly for a while, and then he has a dream.

In that dream Rhaegar is inches from him; it’d take a bare motion for them to touch. When Jon closes that small distance and kisses his friend, Rhaegar doesn’t push him away; rather, he kisses back. Jon’s hands reach up and bury themselves in that silver hair (it’s as soft as it looks); Rhaegar’s frame is warm, no, almost burning against his, Rhaegar’s lips are pliant and rapidly becoming kiss-swollen under his own. Jon moans when Rhaegar’s hands reach down and undo his breeches, but as soon as Rhaegar’s fingers wrap around his length, he opens his eyes.

He sits up on his bed with a jerk, his arms trembling, his breath deep and irregular. He can feel his cheeks flush, and there’s a damp patch on his sheet, and the dream left him hard on top of everything. As he lies down under the covers again and wraps his own hand around his cock, he finishes this humiliating business with a couple of clumsy, quick strokes. When he comes, he’s thinking about Rhaegar’s hands being in place of his.

A minute later, he tries to fight off the shame rushing over him, and he’s thankful that he has his own room.

Come morning, he’s set on ignoring it.

\--

In a week, he realizes that he can’t.

It’s not only stolen touches during training anymore; it’s that Jon had never realized how much they actually touch in other occasions. Most of it is Rhaegar – friends as they are, Jon has never quite given in to the urge of casual touch, not when his friend is the crown prince. Rhaegar, on his side, has no such quibbles; whenever they’re not sparring but merely talking, or sitting next to each other while eating, or whenever Rhaegar feels like playing music, he always sits very close. Jon had never really noticed his tendency to bump shoulders with whoever sits next to him, or touching one’s arm if he wants to get their attention instead of calling their name.

He had thought nothing of Rhaegar kissing his friends on their cheek at times – he does it with _everyone_ he’s close to, Arthur Dayne being the first in line – and it hadn’t been an issue until now, but the first time it happens after that forsaken dream, Jon feels his cheeks flushing and has to feign having caught a chill. Finding a moment alone to undo his breeches and take care of a never less welcome erection that won’t go away otherwise seems like the hardest task he ever had to accomplish.

And still, for the rest of the day, the only thing he can think of is how Rhaegar’s lips had felt against his skin.

At the first occasion he has, he prays to the Seven until his knees hurt. He can’t afford feeling like this, and it seems so out of his control that the gods are the only option left.

There are tear tracks down his cheeks when he stands up. He wipes them away and hopes that whatever _this_ is, it doesn’t last.

\--

The gods are no help.

The more time passes, the more Jon realizes that his feelings aren’t going away, not now and not in the foreseeable future. He becomes one of the few people to know the reason why Rhaegar left his harp for a sword, and he schools his features into not showing anything when Rhaegar starts talking about needing to have a wife that might give him three children. Whenever Rhaegar touches him, half of him feels elated and the other half as if he was being slowly poisoned.

The only good thing is that Rhaegar doesn’t know or suspect any of it; it’s obvious from the lack of change in his mannerism and from his general attitude.

It’s no help that the more time passes, the fairer the prince becomes; Jon can understand even too well why any lady from a great house is infatuated with him.

It’s not until the marriage talk turns into marriage _plans_ and the marriage plans turn into travel plans to find a suited bride that reality hits Jon like a punch to the gut.

He’s a man grown, now, both of them are, and while his father hasn’t pushed him for finding a bride himself yet, he knows that he can’t stall marriage forever. He’s his father’s only son, his house’s only heir; he’ll be expected to marry, at some point soon.

But he doesn’t want a wife. More than that, he doesn’t want a woman.

\--

The first time he had a woman, it was in King’s Landing most pricey brothel (nothing but the best for the prince’s friend); he had picked one whose hair was the palest shade of blonde among the girls, and whose eyes were the kind of deep blue that can become extremely deep violet if you look into them hard enough and fool yourself enough. It hadn’t done much for him – it had merely been release, and he had thought about Rhaegar all the time.

Once, he had arranged for the owner to find him a boy. He couldn’t have had much of a pick about appearances in that case, and the boy had looked nothing like Rhaegar, but it had felt more satisfying than with the blue-eyed girl.

It took a lot to come to terms with it, but the facts aren’t going to change. Jon only loves Rhaegar, and won’t ever love a woman. Oh, of course love isn’t part of the equation; he’s sure that his father would be quick to find him a suitable match if he asked, and they wouldn’t even need to meet before their marriage. They wouldn’t ever need to love each other, but a bride would at least deserve a husband caring for her in _some_ way and one that would still put her and their family before all the rest. That will never happen; Jon will always care for someone else first.

\--

It’s pathetic, that the second Rhaegar says that he likes the view, the lands surrounding Griffin’s Roost suddenly seem even more beautiful to him. It’s one of those moments that Jon loathes and cherishes at the same time – on one side this might be the happiest moment of his life, and on the other, he’s miserable. It’s only him and Rhaegar, in what his possibly Jon’s favorite part of his own castle, Rhaegar is giving him that soft smile whenever their eyes meet, those eyes of his sincerely enjoying the view, his hair floating in the soft breeze. If someone told Jon that he could stop time in this moment… he thinks he would accept, no matter the price. Because when it ends Rhaegar will go back downstairs and tomorrow they’ll ride to King’s Landing, and in a matter of months he’ll be married, and he’ll never _know_.

Not as if Jon ever wants Rhaegar to know, or as if he ever thought to say the truth. That has never crossed his mind. Oh, if only he had received a sign that his affections might be welcomed, he would have, but he hasn’t and he doesn’t delude himself into thinking it would ever happen.

“You do know that I never particularly liked my destiny,” Rhaegar says, and Jon forces himself out of his train of thoughts. He knows that. But he selfishly is happy that Rhaegar didn’t disregard that prophecy; otherwise they wouldn’t have met either. “But I’m not unhappy of who I met because I decided to follow it.”

Jon’s heart beats so wildly, it seems as if it’s going to break out from his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t know what he could add, but he smiles back and thinks that maybe Rhaegar’s wedding itself won’t feel as bad as he fears.

\--

He arrives in King’s Landing a couple of weeks before the wedding, and his hopes that his time won’t be miserable are crushed.

He’s perfectly courteous when introduced to Elia Martell, even if he can’t see anything that puts her in a higher position than all the other ladies who had been considered. She also looks frail – not what he’d choose if he was having aiming to have more than one child from her. Still, Rhaegar seems happy enough with her, and Aerys looks happier than everyone else about the match. Jon keeps his mouth shut when he realizes that Tywin Lannister doesn’t look half as pleased as his king. It also might have to do with his firstborn apparently planning to take the white. But it’s none of Jon’s business.

The only reason he actually knows about Jaime Lannister’s intentions is that Rhaegar is spending most of his time planning for the wedding or with his bride to be, and the only other person at court Jon is friends with (or more than acquaintance with) is Arthur Dayne.

Also, Jaime Lannister is a way safer subject for conversation than anything else, so Jon doesn’t particularly mind discussing him. At least it keeps his mind away from the marriage itself.

“I still think he’s too young,” Arthur tells him one evening, when he’s off shift and they’re reminiscing over their training here years ago. “But he seems very determinate. I merely hope it’s not a spur of the moment decision. It’s not the kind that you can take lightly. The King still has to approve of it anyway – he might not.”

“You seem happy enough with your choice, though,” Jon replies, sipping from his cup of Dornish wine. The taste turns to bittersweet whenever he remembers where it comes from.

“A knight is everything I always wanted to be. By taking the white, I put my skills to the best use that I can. And when Rhaegar is king, I’ll be fighting for my closest friend. I have brothers and a sister that can give heirs to my family and nothing else is required of me. The young Lannister doesn’t exactly do his father a favor, by donning this cloak,” he ends, fingering the white cloth covering his knee.

Jon envies him, for a split second. Being in the Kingsguard wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he muses, if he wanted to be near Rhaegar as much as possible, and no one would question his skills with a sword. But he’s in an even worse position than Jaime Lannister (he doesn’t even have a brother, deformed or not), and while his position isn’t what matters most to him, it would feel like betraying his father if he took the white. And what good would that be? He’s pretty sure that Arthur’s feelings for their silver prince aren’t of the same nature as his and he would only torture himself further.

\--

The wedding is the worst day of Jon’s life. (He will change idea, some years after, but not until then.) He has to fake his happiness after the ceremony, in the thirty seconds he manages to find to at least congratulate his friend, and then during the feast he can either stare at Rhaegar and Elia smiling at each other as they eat, or observe the rest.

He settles on observing everyone else, cursing the feast for being so huge and this _long_.

What he sees is Tywin Lannister looking as if he would like to kill everyone in this room just by staring (Jon can somehow relate), Cersei Lannister eyeing her brother and Elia respectively at intervals (her stare is unreadable in the first case, definitely jealous in the second) and Jaime Lannister eyeing his sister when he thinks that no one is paying attention. Then again maybe no one except Jon himself is – everyone else seems happy enough with either glancing at Rhaegar and Elia or polishing their plates.

Meanwhile, Aerys rarely spares a glance for the newlyweds and is obviously very happy at his Hand’s discomfort. The queen’s eyes lit up whenever she looks at her firstborn, at his new wife and at her other son, and dull whenever she meets anyone else’s stare. Every other lady that might have been in Elia’s place is faking happiness (Jon can at least congratulate himself for being better than any of them at hiding his discomfort), and while the weather is warm and the hall is full of people, Jon can’t help feeling discomfort for the entirety of the wedding. The only time his ears don’t hurt because of the music is when Rhaegar has his harp brought and sings himself, but all the other musicians seem off-key and the only song he recognizes at a certain point is _The Rains of Castamere_.

He only eats small bits of every dish, and all of them feel tasteless.

When he realizes that it’s time for the bedding, or that it’s about to happen, he excuses himself saying that he doesn’t feel well – he must have drunk too much – and makes sure that he isn’t back in the room until both Rhaegar and Elia aren’t there.

He has gone through the entire wedding, but he couldn’t have stood through the bedding.

He doesn’t notice a figure hidden in the shadows watching him from a secret entrance that leads out to the gardens.

\--

When Rhaegar personally comes to his castle with the news that Elia is pregnant, a few months later, Jon is sincere as he congratulates himself. He remembers the prophecy – he knows why Rhaegar looks so pleased.

He _is_ pleased as well, sure; why wouldn’t he? Loving someone also means being pleased when _they_ are, and be happy if they’re happy; still, it doesn’t change that when Rhaegar kisses his cheeks before leaving, saying that they should meet again soon, he almost feels like crying.

\--

When he receives an invitation to Lord Whent’s tourney, for a second he wonders whether he should accept or not. He hasn’t been to King’s Landing since the wedding, and it’s been the most time he has spent without seeing Rhaegar – not that it has done much to change his feelings. From what the messenger who brought the invitation says, it’s the kind of tourney that musicians will write about, and Jon figures that not attending might pass for disrespectful, especially considering that the King will be there. When the messenger also adds that the crown prince will most surely joust, Jon already knows that he will accept.

The tourney is two weeks from now; he leaves for Harrenhall the day after, so that even if something happens along the way and delays his arrival, he won’t be late.

He arrives five days before the start, and Lord Whent grants him a room and gives him a welcome deign of its name; when asked if he would wish to joust, he politely declines. In the next two days, he hears enough rumors to last for a lifetime; apparently Jaime Lannister will take the white, most probably during the tourney, Tywin Lannister isn’t pleased with it at all, Elia’s second pregnancy is taking a worse toll on her health than her first, Lyanna Stark was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. He doesn’t care about any of this except for the news about Elia, and he doesn’t know how he should feel about it. He had known that she was expecting a child, but had found enough excuses to avoid going to court recently.

The next morning, Aerys Targaryen and his Hand arrive with half of the Kingsguard – the other half is to escort the prince and his wife in the evening. Jon greets them along with Lord Whent, and he doesn’t fail to notice that the king stares at him most of the time. He can feel Aerys’s eyes on him as he greets Tywin Lannister and his daughter (why neither of his sons are with him?), and for a terrible second Jon wonders if maybe Aerys _has_ understood.

He tells himself that it has to be some other reason; they haven’t seen each other enough times for Aerys to have suspected anything, and he had been especially careful never to look in Rhaegar’s direction in the few occasions when the three of them had been in the same space.

It doesn’t change that there’s a bad kind of tension between the king and his Hand, and everyone with a bit of sense would take notice. That’s why he goes searching for Arthur, who had been in that first half of the Kingsguard that had come in the morning.

When he manages to find a moment, he doesn’t waste time with useless questions. “What’s going on?”

“Between the king and Lannister? Well, in a matter of days, Jaime Lannister won’t be heir anymore. He’ll take the white at the beginning of this tourney and his father is furious. Also because the king hasn’t refused his son’s request.”

“He thinks that it was done just to spite him?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Rhaegar doesn’t like this either, but he will tell you himself soon enough. They’re traveling slower because of the princess.”

“Is it because of the pregnancy?”

Arthur nods and Jon schools his face into not showing anything that he’s feeling right now.

“Anyway, I think that a change of Hand will come soon enough. If I said two years from now I would be extremely generous.”

Jon doesn’t like the sound of it. He doesn’t _like_ Tywin Lannister, but if he were King he would keep the man close rather than anger him, and there’s nothing to be said about his ruling.

He remembers the first time Rhaegar told him about that prophecy. He feels chilled to the bone.

\--

Jon doesn’t join the dinner hall that evening, feigning a particularly bad headache – when he says that he wants to rest so that he might not miss the tourney no one asks questions. He probably looks the part, too; hearing the news in the morning has done enough to turn his stomach sour and make him lose appetite.

He’s turning restlessly in his bed when someone knocks a couple of times. He reaches for a dagger he kept under his pillow and stands up.

“Who is there?”

“You wouldn’t want to see an old friend?”

Jon drops the dagger and opens the door at once; Rhaegar is standing in the doorway, looking as fair as usual, his smile blinding; before he knows, the door is closed and Rhaegar’s hands are on his shoulders, and Jon has to force himself to pay attention to what Rhaegar is saying.

“You _do_ look unwell,” Rhaegar muses. “I’ll admit I was disappointed when I knew you wouldn’t join us for dinner, but I certainly can’t blame you if you wanted some rest. I hope I haven’t disturbed you?”

“Oh, not at all,” Jon blurts, taking a step backwards and motioning for Rhaegar to sit down on the bed. The loss of touch is painful, but if it had lasted a second longer he might have done something very stupid. “Please, have a seat. I didn’t feel like braving a crowded hall, but you would never disturb me. I hope that everything is fine with Elia,” he adds.

Rhaegar’s smile fades a bit but not completely as he sits; Jon joins only after he does. “Thank you. Truth to be told, it’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a difficult pregnancy,” Rhaegar replies. “It could be going better than it is. At least, it’s almost over.”

Jon can’t help thinking, _if she’s supposed to give you three children, the first had been a difficult pregnancy and the second is no different, how will the third fare?_ But he doesn’t put it into words, also because he feels horrible for having even thought it. Elia doesn’t deserve his resent just because she has what he can’t even dream of having.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he settles on. He can’t come up with anything better. “But I would like to know how _you_ are faring, my friend. Truth to be told… can I be honest?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to hear anything less.”

“From what I’ve seen since I arrived… your father and his Hand don’t seem to get along.”

Rhaegar gives him a weary nod. “I don’t like it either. Father is saying that he should get someone else. I’m not of the same opinion, but dealing with him has been increasingly difficult. But we’re here to celebrate, aren’t we? I’ll think about the tourney for now, and the rest can wait. I’ve been told you won’t joust? I guess it’s only good for me, since you would have been a serious threat.”

Jon knows a deliberate change of subject when he hears it. “I’m not in my best condition. But I will be happy to watch.”

“Good. And tell me, how are things with your father? I would like news. I hope your lands are still as beautiful as I remember them.”

Jon is about to answer when suddenly Rhaegar’s hand moves and covers his wrist.

It’s nothing, he knows it’s _nothing_ ; Rhaegar has been doing it since they met – touching someone else’s arm or hand when he’s listening to what they have to say, if he knows them well.

Still, it sends shivers through his arm, and he has to feign a small cough to buy himself some time to gain enough composure.

He’s glad that it’s dark. If too much blood rushes to his cheeks, Rhaegar won’t notice it.

\--

He never asks Rhaegar _why_ he ever named Lyanna Stark queen of love and beauty. He recognizes it for the insanity it is (regardless of what Rhaegar thought, he’s _married_ ), but he never mentions it. At least, no one will notice if he looks in the winner’s direction longer than it would be proper. He doesn’t miss the way Rhaegar looks at her. He feels a shiver run through his spine, and it chills him to the bone.

\--

He’s summoned to King’s Landing a few months after the tourney; Jon leaves at once. Having buried his father a short while before, it’s not a trip he takes in good spirits, but he can’t not do it.

He’s admitted at once, and the farther he walks inside the castle, the more suffocated he feels; he doesn’t know how or why, but the tension is the kind you could cut with knives, and of all the faces he sees, not one of them is smiling. It probably has something to do with the recent change of Hand. Arthur hadn’t been wrong.

He’s brought to Rhaegar’s quarters almost directly; before, he’s brought at the Iron throne. He tries not to notice that the king’s sleeves are ripped and that he must have not cut his nails for a while. He answers truthfully a number of questions that feel purposeless about his friendship with the prince, his strengths in battle, his lands, his father. For some reason he isn’t worried that Aerys might have realized that his feelings for the crown prince aren’t what one would consider proper; the string of questions is too queer and too disjointed to aim at a specific target.

He’s relieved when finally the king gives him leave.

When Jaime Lannister finally leads him to Rhaegar’s rooms, Arthur is standing in front of one. They exchange a slight not before Jon moves inside it.

Rhaegar doesn’t look as pleased as he had when he had come to Griffin’s Roost to announce Elia’s first pregnancy. There are tired lines on his face, and his hair reminds more of dull iron than shining silver, but when he sees that Jon is inside the room, his smile still lights up his face.

“You arrived quickly.”

“I left as soon as I could.”

“I’m sorry about your father. I wish I could have attended the funeral, but –”

“I understand. It’s no matter. And you don’t look in good spirits.”

“I have talked to a maester,” Rhaegar answers. “If Elia doesn’t die when this child is born, she won’t be able to carry a third.”

Jon has no answer for that, but Rhaegar doesn’t give him time to come up with one. “I can’t ask her to risk her life along with another child’s, but the dragon _must_ have three heads.”

Another man would have shivered at the way Rhaegar’s voice changes as soon as he says must, but Jon barely notices it. “I think I know what I have to do.”

“What you _have_ to do? Rhaegar, what –”

“I can’t say for now. But… I might have to ask you for help. Can I count on you?”

This, Jon thinks, has to be the easiest question he ever had to answer.

“… of course. I’m – we’ve known each other for so long. I’m your man. I couldn’t refuse you, whatever you asked of me.”

Rhaegar’s eyes widen for a second, and then he gives Jon the brightest smile he has ever been at the receiving end of.

He has no idea of what is going to happen next, but if he can have this, then he doesn’t care.

\--

The last time he sees Rhaegar, it’s a short while after his second son is born and mere days before he realizes what Rhaegar _really_ had in mind.

Rhaegar comes to Griffin’s Roost without sending notice and when Jon tells him that they should talk on the tower he answers that there’s no time and that they need to find a secluded spot now. He can’t stay for the night, he adds.

The best Jon can do on such a short notice is the stables – he sends away the few people still in and gives orders not to be disturbed. Rhaegar isn’t obviously traveling to be recognized; his cloak has a hood large enough to cover his head and half of his face.

“Rhaegar, what’s going –”

“In a few days you’ll know. I apologize in advance, but there’s no other way. There has to be a third head. _Has_ to.”

“I know –”

“I need you to look out for Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys if things take a turn for the worst. Arthur will join me soon and I can hardly trust anyone else in the Kingsguard. Will you?”

“Of course. You don’t even need to ask.”

“Good. Then – whatever my father might ask of you, if he ever asks something of you… refuse him.”

“What? Rhaegar, I can hardly refuse my king if –”

“Are you _my_ man or his?”

Rhaegar’s eyes look almost dark blue in the dim light of the stables, and he moved closer, so much closer, and Jon can hardly remember to breathe.

“What kind of a question is that? I’m _yours_ , that’s –”

“Then _refuse_. You know what they say about us. That there’s madness, along with fire.”

“You aren’t mad,” Jon says. He doesn’t even think about questioning that statement.

“I’m not, but my father _is_ , or will be very soon. He can’t be trusted with a kingdom and he has singled you out for a while. I don’t know why, but whatever it is, whatever he asks of you, refuse him. If you need to say that I told you to, then do it. Please.”

“If that’s what you wish… I will refuse.”

“Good.”

Rhaegar takes a breath, moves closer, brings down his hood. His cheeks are flushed, strikingly so against his so pale skin, his hair is unkempt and Jon has to bite his tongue in order not to reach out and straighten it into place.

“If this is the last time we see each other –”

“What do you mean?”

“Jon. If this is the last time we see each other, then I need you to know that I’m honored to have known you.”

His tone is strange – Jon doesn’t know if Rhaegar is not saying something. He’s not lying, that’s plain, but _something_ is off, and –

He stays perfectly still as Rhaegar’s lips touch his.

It lasts mere seconds, and it’s nothing more than just _that_ – a brief touch, barely there at all, but for the three seconds it lasts, Jon tries to commit to memory everything there is to it. Rhaegar’s lips are rougher than he had ever imagined them, but they’re pleasantly warm at the same time. Rhaegar’s body is so very _hot_ , mere inches from is; for a second, Jon thinks that it could as well be made of fire. He doesn’t smell the way he always used to – always clean except when after a fight, or like the flowers of King’s Landing’s gardens. Right now he smells like someone who has rode a long distance without a stop and doesn’t plan on stopping, but it’s not an issue. Those three seconds are too brief and too long, and that kiss is too much and too little, but then it’s over and Jon is taking deep breaths while Rhaegar brings up his hood again.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar says, with a final tone.

“I’m your man,” Jon replies, because there’s nothing else he can say.

Jon doesn’t know it yet, but Rhaegar had been prophetic. It _is_ the last time they see each other.

But as Jon runs to his quarters and his bed and relieves himself on the sheets after a couple quick strokes, hating himself for every second of it and thinking about the feeling of Rhaegar’s lips on his, the thought doesn’t even occur to him.

\--

He will think about that kiss for years, asking himself what it had meant. Was it only friendship, and Rhaegar kissed him on the mouth because it felt more meaningful and he knew that they wouldn’t see each other again? Maybe he had finally understood the extent of Jon’s feelings and had done it out of pity, not being able or wanting to give more than that? Jon will only be sure of one thing every time – it wouldn’t have happened again and Rhaegar never felt the same way.

\--

Days later, he realizes what madness Rhaegar had been planning; months later, Aerys summons him to King’s Landing and tells him that he would gladly have him as his Hand. The rebellion’s leader is a young, noted warrior, and what’d be better than a Hand that could match him?

Jon remembers what Rhaegar had said, but then he remembers his request. If he was Hand, he would have to stay in King’s Landing and keep an eye on Elia and the children; and he _could_ put himself to use. He _would_ make Rhaegar’s best interests, and his friend would never begrudge him for that, wouldn’t he? Maybe Rhaegar hadn’t suspected that _this_ was what Aerys had to offer him.

When he accepts, it’s not for himself. It’s for Rhaegar. As everything else has been until now.

He doesn’t know yet that, at least about Aerys’s proposals, Rhaegar had been right.

\--

“Why did you even search for me?” he asks the eunuch. Varys might have _huge projects_ for him, as he puts it, but Jon is done. He lost his lands, he lost his titles, he lost _everything_ , and on top of that Rhaegar is dead along with Elia and the children. A usurper sits on the throne that should have been his prince’s, and Jon _could_ have stopped him and hadn’t, and Tywin Lannister had the last laugh. Other than Rhaegar, all of his friends are dead and he has no close family anymore. He isn’t interested in huge projects. He isn’t interested in anything. He’s only glad that he never married – exile is never a good thing for a wife and children, if you happen to have them.

“Because I think there’s no other man suited for the task I have in mind. And because you were our prince’s friend, weren’t you?”

Varys’s voice is the sickening kind of sweet, and Jon doesn’t like the sound of it, but he can’t deny those words. “I was.”

Varys’s eyebrow raises. “Such a good _friend_ , even if from what I recall, you didn’t seem particularly happy on the day of his wedding.”

It takes a look at Varys to come to the conclusion. _He knows_. It’s plain. Not that such a knowledge is worth any coin, these days. Jon shivers, wondering if he has ever used that kind of information before.

“Then again I can see why you might have not felt entirely like sharing everyone’s cheer. But what I want to ask you has none to do with that.”

He motions to a woman that had come with him to walk forward; she’s holding a bundle in their arms.

 _The Seven spare me_ , Jon thinks, _it can’t be_.

Varys motions for the slave to uncover the bundle.

Jon gasps at the sight. The child is barely two, with fine silver hair and purple eyes, not as dark as his father’s – a lighter shade, but there’s no mistaking the color.

“Aerys’s children are currently being taken care of,” Varys says, obviously not wanting to provide too much information if Jon declines, “but Rhaegar’s child was saved for a reason. He will have to be hidden, no doubt, but at the same time he should receive a worthy education. Who knows, one day he might want to present his claim. And I’m sure that you’re the right man for such a task. I need someone who can be trusted. And I’m quite sure that you can. Can you?”

It’s the second easiest question he has ever been asked.

He already knows that he will do anything that is required of him, if it means keeping Rhaegar’s child safe and see him sitting on the throne where his father should have been one day.

He could do nothing for Rhaegar in the end, and he’s also sure that Rhaegar never knew what Varys realized in a minute, years ago, but this is something that he can do. And something he will do, even if it costs him his life.

After all, there wouldn’t be a worthier reason to lose it.

“Yes,” he answers.

He’s Rhaegar’s man and has been since that first time when they met years ago; there was no other answer he could have given.

End.


End file.
